


Bandages

by moz17



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: American Sign Language, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Menstruation, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:08:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27472504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moz17/pseuds/moz17
Summary: "Years ago, he had once made the other sign, tapping his balled fist against his cheek twice, enquiring, and had had to dodge a blow from his partner. Wrench had quickly learned to never use this sign again and had gone through a series of different expressions through the years."
Relationships: Mr. Numbers/Mr. Wrench (Fargo)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 17





	Bandages

Numbers found diner food to at least be predictably bad, and there would be plenty of it; in any case, though it was easy to make bad coffee, it was fairly difficult to fuck up toast, and so he usually availed of this option. He enjoyed the warmth of the crisp bread, and how the consistency of the melted butter give it a richer texture. It filled him and left him satisfied, knowing he wouldn't feel hungry again for a long stretch. He would order toast at any time of the day and so diners were often the best choice, as they served all of their menu at all hours. 

As was the case now – it was after midnight and they had turned off the road when they came upon this diner. They still had at least another two hours' drive ahead of them before home but Numbers had been insistent about wanting to stop for food, and although Wrench was tired and not hungry, he signalled and found a space to park, recognising that his partner was sinking into a dark mood and if getting toast was going to help, then he would get him toast. 

Numbers knew they had stopped just to indulge his whims and that made him tetchy. Wrench had no reproaches to make, he sat across from his partner, nursing a cup of coffee, waiting. This did not prevent Numbers from reproaching himself and feeling somehow on the defensive. He picked up another slice of toast, spreading it with butter, and keeping his head down, brought it to his mouth, taking large bites out of it. He felt like he was being watched, and he raised his eyes and saw Wrench was indeed looking at him, unrepentant. This had happened before, where he had caught Wrench watching him as he ate and each time, he felt his hackles going up, but he had never addressed it before. Tonight, however, he was exhausted and hungry, they still weren't home and he was attempting to ignore the beginnings of a deep pain in his lower abdomen. It had been a messy job too, and had taken longer than planned to complete and clean up. He knew there would be questions about this and it made him wilt even further thinking about the interrogation they would have from their employer in the near future.

[What are you looking at? Isn't there anything else you can look at?]

Wrench took a mouthful of coffee, his expression not changing. He made no reply for a long moment, and Numbers understood that this meant a series of retorts had instantly come to mind and yet he was choosing to not sign any of them. He was being careful and Numbers disliked this too. It made him want to needle his partner into responding with something unguarded, anything, so he could take out some of this nervous energy and tension on a safe target. 

[Is this a thing you're into or something?]

[What? No. You happen to be sitting across from me, in my line of sight, though.]

[Read the back of the ketchup bottle instead, OK?]

[Why? Why can't I look at you?]

[While I'm eating?] 

[What's the difference?] Wrench took his two extended index fingers, crossing them, before pulling them away from each other. 

[It's too late to be doing this. Just don't, alright?]

[I'll try. But I wasn't even looking at you eat, I just thought your hair looked good.] 

[We both look like shit and you know it.]

[Yeah, but your hair is still good.]

Numbers sighed, letting his shoulders sink as he buttered the second last piece of toast. He experienced another stab of pain in his abdomen and he pretended it had nothing to do with him. He tried not to react or betray this struggle outwardly, and he decided that even if Wrench noticed he would deny it.

They made their way back to the car, the dark weighing on Numbers, driving him further into himself. Having put his winter coat back on when they left the diner, he now felt his temperature climbing, he was prickly hot, and this was at odds with the cool night air and covering of snow on the ground. He felt so heavy, and not in a good way, not from having partaken sufficiently of food. He was swollen, every breath and movement an inescapable reminder of the aspects of his life he could not yet control, that he had never been able to exert control over, and he did not know when this would change. 

Numbers divested himself of his heavy coat and sat in the driver's seat, taking the keys from Wrench, who did not question him. He focused on the road, following the small beam of light projected from their car onto the tarmac, the only pool of white in the unending darkness. He could barely see anything, he could hardly see any reflection in the rearview mirror which included his own and he was fine with this currently. The miles ticked by slowly, and Numbers was lulled into at least an almost neutral state by the sameness of the black, empty roads, undisturbed by any other vehicle. 

They were roughly twenty minutes from home when he felt his lower abdomen clenching involuntarily, and gritting his teeth, he sought to control this, to make it do his bidding. It was a futile struggle, and it was a futile struggle every month, Sisyphean in his attempts to begin again each time believing that if he could just forget or ignore the existence of this then his body would comply. But he lost to his body every time and it left him feeling weak, defective, powerless, grubby somehow. He groaned, gripping the steering wheel fiercely, needing to maintain their course on the road. Then he swore loudly, cursing himself and everyone as he felt the traitorous blood pouring in an unstoppable hot rush, stopping again after this first strong spurt. It was warm first, then cooled, and he could feel it stickily seeping through his underwear and through the starched material of his trousers, and knowing his luck, the car seat would be stained by it too. He continued to clench his muscles, aware of how pointless this exercise was but at least it gave him something to focus on. He needed to get the car home, he needed to get them home safely, and then he needed to get clean. He felt his partner looking at him once more, and he steadily refused to turn his head to acknowledge him. 

He was in his twenties and he still let this happen. What was he going to do about his clothes, the car seat? He couldn't face bringing his clothes to the cleaners' in order to get those stains out but he knew he wouldn't be able to face trying to remove the stains himself. He particularly liked these trousers, the material they were made of, the cut of the leg, how they fit him, and now they were tainted by what had happened. Involuntarily, he remembered the home, he remembered trying to scrub his clothes clean using the limited facilities available to him, hoping no one would catch him in this act.

He finally reached their apartment block, and he pulled the car in, killing the engine. Another wave of pain swept him, and he bent forward, feeling a further spurt of blood escaping him, and he made a sound halfway between a growl and a whimper. Wrench was trying to get his attention without touching him; he held up his left hand, the back facing out, and extending the first two fingers of his right hand, slid these over the other hand. 

[Do you need bandages?]

[What?] Numbers opened the door, and began to move, slowly, the disgusting feeling of his blood-soaked clothes making him aware that his stomach was also affected as it roiled dangerously. 

Wrench finger-spelled the word and then indicated to the part of his body.

[For your kidney infection. Do you need bandages?]

Years ago, he had once made the other sign, tapping his balled fist against his cheek twice, enquiring, and had had to dodge a blow from his partner. Wrench had quickly learned to never use this sign again and had gone through a series of different expressions through the years, but recently the bandage and kidney infection had stuck. Numbers would have preferred if they could've just not referred to it at all but they needed something, or at least Wrench did, so he could assess what was going on. He knew the combination of words made no sense: who the fuck needed a bandage when they had a kidney infection? But it did help, a little, once he managed to get past the humiliation of having to discuss it in this manner. It was a kidney infection, and he needed a bandage. 

He remembered his reflection in the mirror, bandages wound around his chest, the disbelief he experienced at meeting this image of himself, how he waited for the day when he would be able to unwind the white strips and not have to replace them, to not have to wrap anything like this around his chest again. 

Numbers tried to focus again, at least half-way, on the current moment, considering Wrench's question whilst attempting to ignore the rest of his present situation. He took his thumb and first two fingers, hitting them against each other as if he was clapping with these digits. As far as he could remember, he had some; he had a tendency to not keep an eye on such stocks, often necessitating Wrench to procure some for him. Numbers could never manage it himself, and he relied on Wesley for this. 

He turned the key in the door, leaving it swing behind him, for Wesley to deal with; Numbers had already slammed the bathroom door shut behind him, and keeping his back resolutely to the mirror, he tugged his clothes off, flinging them into a corner, trying to avoid catching sight of his stained underwear and trousers. It was a futile exercise though, it was always a futile exercise, because the red stains were splashed across his crotch and upper thighs, and he sought valiantly to not catch sight of these either, failing, but pretending he couldn't see them. He stepped under the scalding hot water, not caring that his skin was screaming at him. The small bathroom filled with steam and he was soon enveloped in it, unable to perceive much. 

They had been so fucking ignorant as kids. In spite of reading as much as he could, the home only had a limited amount of books (and not all of these were intact, but no one there considered whether these children warranted books that weren't missing pages) and one day he had asked Wesley, waiting until they were outside alone, playing catch, whether he knew anything about why people bled down there. Wesley had been confused as well, unable to help, but concerned. 

[Does it hurt?] Wesley took his two index fingers, and holding them opposite each other, twisted them, simultaneously contorting his face.

[Yeah, but that's not the problem.] 

[I don't understand.]

[It's wrong.]

[Why?]

[Because you don't have it, do you?]

[No.]

[Then why do I?]

Numbers emerged from the bathroom, and moved quickly into the bedroom, ignoring Wrench where he sat on the couch. It was after three in the morning at this point. He grabbed some things, and trying not to think about it, shoved the bandage into his underwear before pulling them up, and then putting on his pyjamas. The feeling of the material between his legs was insidious, like some sort of live, insistently turning soft creature, and his stomach lurched once more. The pain had bloomed across his lower abdomen, into his lower back, his temperature was still too hot, and he got into the bed, lying as still he could, trying to escape having to be aware of his own body's movements and feelings. 

He heard his partner moving around outside the room, entering the bathroom, and he closed his eyes, relieved that someone else was dealing with the clothes, but bent over with the shame and humiliation of someone else having to see his ruined clothes. Wesley entered the bedroom then, and carefully approached the bed.

[Do you need anything?]

[Sleep.]

He nodded, and Grady could feel from here how much his partner wanted to get into the bed with him, to touch him, and try bring him some relief or at least keep him company. But he had never been able to be intimate or close with his partner during these times. The first time it had happened, he had run off, not wanting anyone to see him, and climbed onto the roof, sitting there alone, looking out at the cold landscape. He'd got into huge trouble for that, and Wes had been worried too, unable to find where he was hiding. Grady couldn't remember the exact state he had been in, or what he had felt or thought. The only impression he retained was that his young self had understood then that something was wrong, that he was being pulled down the wrong path somehow; he didn't know how to stop it and he couldn't understand why it was happening either.

Grady slept poorly in spite of his exhaustion. Typically, the first night's sleep after a job was a relief, and a long, unbroken stretch of rest. This time, it was not. He could not get comfortable, he hurt, and so he only dozed intermittently. His awareness that Wesley had been relegated to their sofa also gnawed at him and prevented him from finding any respite. 

He dropped off again for a bit, and when he opened his eyes this time, sharp winter light was piercing through the blinds, and he could hear Wesley moving about their apartment. Grady checked the bed, knowing his luck the bandage wouldn't have held for the night, but this was not the case, there were no stains or tell-tale flecks on the mattress, the blood had not soaked through. The ache remained and his abdomen was tender but at least his temperature seemed to have dropped. As he sat up, Wesley came into the bedroom, bearing a mug of coffee in one hand, and a plate of toast in the other. His eyes were puffy and his hair a mess. He placed the mug and plate on the bedside table before taking up position at the edge of the bed furthest away from his partner. Grady recognised that Wes was doing his best to behave and act within the unspoken parameters he set up during these times, because at least if he followed them, then he could be in the same room as his partner, but if he did anything outside of what was deemed acceptable, he would be banished. Grady wished he could hit someone or smash something. He wished he could offer Wesley something to demonstrate that he saw what he was doing, what he was giving him. He wished they didn't live an existence where his identity papers were doubly-complicated. He wished they had jobs where they got paid more predictably and could write out applications for time off – the amount of times they had managed to find somewhere Grady could go for the procedure he needed, only to have to cancel because their employer summoned them. The last attempt had been a while ago and Grady was putting off trying to organise it again, not being able to take having the rock roll back on top of him once more. 

So he ate his toast, and drank his coffee, and signed [thank you] to his partner, hoping that he saw how much he meant it and what this [thank you] encompassed. And of course, Wesley saw it because he saw everything, particularly when it came to his partner. 

This monthly infection made him so isolated, and he wondered if Wesley felt as alone as he did during this time. The stillness of the room was oppressive, the absence of signing weighing heavy on them. 

He stroked his chin with his fingertips twice before moving his crossed fingers to his chest, finally pulling his hand away from himself. [In some communities in Judaism, during this time, women aren't allowed to share a bed with their husband because they're considered unclean, and for the week after that too.]

Wesley held up his index finger and holding it at the same level as his mouth, stretched his arm out, made a circle with his hand, bringing it back to his lips. [That sounds very lonely.] 

[It is.] Grady unexpectedly felt a hot prickling at the back of his eyes which he fought down. [And it doesn't make sense to me either. This is meant to happen for these women, it is natural, so why do this? Whereas, I can understand for someone like me why they would do it because it seems appropriate for how I feel every month. But why are women supposed to feel as marked and as terrible as I do during this time?]

Wesley's eyes shimmered with sympathetic emotion and perhaps it was because he was too tired after a bad night's sleep, or it was because he was too tired after all these years, but he did not reject it, and for once, he was able to accept the kindness his partner showed to him which he was incapable of bestowing on himself. 

[The only real solution is surgery, still. But until then, I can't keep doing this.] He held up his extended index fingers, and raising his right hand brought this finger down to hit against the other. 

[Is it the only thing that makes you feel like this?] Wesley leaned forward, wanting to be closer to him but not actually moving from his spot at the end of the bed. Years back, he had tried to touch his partner when he had a kidney infection and his reaction had not even been violent, which he could have dealt with, it had been a withdrawal, a disassociation, and it had frightened Wes so much that he would never try it again, no matter how much this went against his natural instincts. Even addressing the issue like this was breaking a taboo for them. 

[Yes.] This was true. He did not experience any deep desire or any strong negative feelings about the other aspects of himself others living a similar experience might want to change. Sex had never been an issue for him, and neither had it been for Wesley. The only time he could not cope with having sex was when he had a kidney infection, it overrode and blanked out all the good feelings and sensations he would usually have, making him hate the part of himself he usually had no problems with. The one thing Grady had idle fantasies about were what it would be like to top his partner, but there were other creative solutions to this, and they very much enjoyed exploring these. 

There was clear relief on his partner's face, he was happy that at least it was only one thing which was impacting him badly, which was something.

[Am I doing anything wrong?] He folded down the fingers on his right hand, leaving only his thumb and little finger extended, and brought it up to his chin. 

[No.] He signed emphatically. [You do everything right.] 

They paused for a moment. Wesley's hand grasped at the blanket on the bed, clenching and releasing, and Grady understood he was preventing himself from reaching out to touch him.  
[Do you want to just discuss it a bit or do you want to consider strategies, ways to make it easier to deal with?] 

[Like what? You know I've tried too many times to see if getting drunk or high as fuck would help me to ignore it. It doesn't work.]

[You know the Pavlov's dog experiment?]

[Yes? What are you saying? Try and condition me to have only nice thoughts when this happens? How would you do that?]

[I read somewhere that having sex during that time is good at improving the pain.] He saw Wesley's uncertainty in signing this to him, how small his hand movements were and it was probably the only thing that kept Grady anchored and prevented him from breaking the fragile mood and hesitant dialogue by lashing out. On jobs, these irrational explosions of his were considered an advantage, bypassing any thoughts of self-preservation, bringing him over to the realm of violent fuck-you and nothing else. However, now, in their apartment, when he was already subject to the irrationality of this kidney infection, he found himself disappointed in his reaction, and took some satisfaction in having been able to wrest control over it. 

He used his partner's sign name, making his signs as soft as he could. [Look, no matter what happens, and how much better I get at dealing with this, I won't ever be able to have sex or be sexually intimate during this time.] Part of him wanted to add [I'm sorry] but he was not sorry that he had made it clear that this was a non-negotiable boundary. He was only sorry for hurting his partner, for keeping him at a distance. 

Wesley held up his hands, curling his fingers on the air and releasing them repeatedly. [What about a massage? Not a sexy one, though.] 

He hesitated. His partner saw his hesitation, and so waited, to see what would come from this. 

Grady brought his fingertips to his mouth and then swiped them to the right. [Do you think you can make it better?]

[I can't make it better, but I can help, I think.] He brought his two fists together, held them over his heart, and moved his thumbs up and down. They hardly ever used such endearments for one another, but now Grady felt warmed by the gesture, and he found himself wanting to have his partner's big hands on him.

Wesley began signing again, seeing Grady's reaction. 

[Have you ever considered that part of the reason you hate the times when you have a kidney infection is because it is the time you're away from me, you just go away, you withdraw, and you're alone?]

[You're getting cocky.] He signed back weakly, the hot prickling burning at the back of his eyes again. 

Wesley stood up and moved closer to Grady. He was tense, and he felt his breath catch. Wes pulled back the covers, and using slow, light movements, slid his hands under his partner's pyjamas, resting his warm palms against his lower abdomen. He didn't move, waiting for Grady. Grady couldn't believe he was allowing someone - but not someone because it was Wes - he couldn't believe he was allowing Wes to touch him now. 

[I still hate it. I hate it so much.]

Wes removed one hand. [I know, I know.]

[You don't know.]

[No, not like that, not personally.]

He considered Grady, and then made initial movements, pressing gently, testing how tender his partner was, and where exactly, varying the pressure he applied, beginning to build up a rhythm. This close, he could breathe in his partner's scent, he could see the light lines beginning to form around his eyes, he felt the solidity of his body, his presence. Some of the pain dispersed, some of the tension melted. It didn't disappear completely, but it was more manageable. He reached out his hand and rested it on Wes's thigh, stroking him with his thumb. Yes, it helped but didn't solve it, just like when he had come to Wes's defence as a child it had only helped in that moment, it hadn't solved the issue of the other boys beating him up, or how his learning to speak Wes's language hadn't solved the issue of those around them in the world who were wilfully ignorant and didn't want to understand this man on his terms or even meet him halfway.

-

Years later, when Grady no longer had need of these massages, out of habit, Wesley would still knead his flesh there, rubbing his fingers over the benign, white scar which hadn't been covered over with any tattoos.


End file.
